


Keep Me In Your Arms (As You Cut Away My Strings)

by isychiae



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics), Young Justice (Cartoon), Young Justice - All Media Types
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alcohol, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blüdhaven, Bruce Wayne is a Bad Parent, But he tried, But there are funny bits, Christmas, Coffee Shop, Dating, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Diners-Freeform, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Heavy Angst, Hurt Dick Grayson, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Manipulation, Multi, Panic Attacks, Police Academy, Police Officer Dick Grayson, Possessive Behaviour, Self Harm, Superman Tries, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Wally West is a Good Friend, a simile involving a cat and several toddlers, aliens being inept, allusions to teenage angst, also allusions to team members, bottles, but he doesnt get a gold star because no, but theres some haha funee bits (i hope), getting drunk, implied/reference abuse, lots of family run joints, sad I guess, slight AU, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2019-08-05 15:47:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16370495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isychiae/pseuds/isychiae
Summary: Dick’s life has finally begun to drag itself back on track. He has a new set of acquaintances at the academy, visits and is visited by Wally on the regular, and his rent and utilities are all covered by the academy’s bursary commission. Nothings perfect, especially when he’s rubbing his entire existence in Bruce’s face whenever he turns up at the mountain for the team’s movie nights, but the emergence of a routine allows Dick to settle, and after two months, he doesn’t struggle to fall asleep at night anymore.Or: Dick moves to Bludhaven with a chip on his shoulder, hoping to carve out some kind of worthwhile life for himself now that he's less-than-welcome at the manor, but ends up getting wrapped up in the same self-destructive tendencies that he was avoiding in the first place.(Though this is the second part of a series, this story can be read, and is written to be read, as a standalone piece.)





	1. November, Lattes, and the Best All Day Breakfast in Bludhaven

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote a oneshot a while ago that i recently posted on here called 'Chrysalis', and I really wanted to expand on some of the themes covered in the story as well as exploring some other, related ideas i had.
> 
> I've tagged potential trigger warnings but just to be thorough, please don't read this if you are sensitive to topics like self harm, suicide and abusive relationships. There's nothing crazy in this first chapter but eventually things will present themselves so I thought it best to mention now.
> 
> Enjoy!

The chatting of patrons mingles with the coffee-scented steam in the café as Dick focuses on his essay. His criminal law class in notoriously hard, and Dick wants to get on the professor’s good side as quickly as possible. Originally, Dick had been reluctant to join the Police Academy, his main goal not to further his learning but to assure Clark that he wasn’t falling to pieces, who was rather dramatically convinced that Dick had all but given up on life. He had considered dropping out once Clark had backed off, but Dick actually began to enjoy his course, and couldn’t deny that crimefighting was still his calling, even if the Robin costume lay unused in the Batcave. Now he’d have no chance to recover his suit: if he and Bruce were no longer on speaking terms now, Dick doubted their relationship would improve if Bruce found out that Dick was going to become a cop. 

Despite this, all things considered, Dick’s life has finally begun to drag itself back on track. He has a new set of acquaintances at the academy, visits and is visited by Wally on the regular, and his rent and utilities are all covered by the academy’s bursary commission. Nothings perfect, especially when he’s rubbing his entire existence in Bruce’s face whenever he turns up at the mountain for the team’s movie nights, but the emergence of a routine allows Dick to settle, and after two months, he doesn’t struggle to fall asleep at night anymore.

Working on his assignments at the café opposite the library has become yet another staple of Dick’s daily routine. He used to work in the library, but the unnatural silence combined with the brutal air conditioning reminded him all too well of nights spent writing up reports in his corner of the Batcave. Therefore, one late-summer afternoon, Dick decided to venture across the road and into the ‘Silver Teakettle’, a café somewhat out of step with the rest of Bludhaven’s intimidating atmosphere. The shopfront was painted a sunny yellow, and the interior was brimming with colour, steam reflecting the warmth of the lights and the staff. Dick had taken a seat in the corner booth accompanied by his laptop and a devilishly sugary latte and nestled himself between the teal and scarlet pillows. He has studied there ever since.

Another customer leaves the store, and a draught of biting November wind steals through the café, ruffling several patrons seating in the centre of the floor. Dick looks up from his work, and one of the waitresses arrives at his table to collect his cup.

“Would you like a refill?” She asks, her green eyes crinkling at the corners.

Dick shakes his head.

“No thanks. I don’t think I can afford it.”

A half-hearted laugh dies in his throat and the waitress smiles.

“No problem, it’s on the house.”

“Are you sure?” he replies, unsure.

“You come here every day, you’ve practically paid for it already anyway.” She replies smoothly, picking up the cup. “It’s my treat.”

She smiles again, and leaves to refill his drink. Dick watches her for a moment, before turning back to his essay. He frowns as the words swim together, the hours spent slaving away on the same twelve paragraphs slowly draining the meaning from his already verbose text.

The waitress returns with his refill, and Dick nods as she leaves, too engrossed in his conclusion to engage her further. There’s cinnamon in the latte this time, and it draws a smile from his lips. Half-formed images of past Christmases drift to the forefront of Dick’s mind, and he has to forcibly remove them from his conscious before they dredge up any unwanted emotions. 

Night is falling by the time Dick finishes his essay, and he shut his laptop with a resounding click before packing his things in his laptop. The servers seem to be about to pack up, and Dick realises he is the only customer left in the café. He shoulder’s his backpack, picking up his cup to return to the counter – the servers had missed him whilst cleaning up the other tables. 

Underneath the cup, Dick finds a napkin with twelve digits written on its front, the ink bleeding into the paper. He stares at the scrap for a moment, before pocketing it hastily and leaving the shop.

The night is bitterly cold, sleet spattering the pavement, and Dick buries himself deeper into his jacket as he walks home. His apartment feels miles away, and the twenty-minute journey leaves Dick with numb hands and a cherry red nose. He digs his set of keys out from the pockets of his regrettably thin jacket, and his fingers brush again the napkin from the café. 

Dick breaths a sigh of relief once he is sheltered by the stairwell, but his knees are stiff when he climbs the flight of stairs. Once on his floor, Dick swallows the urge to sprint to his apartment and throw himself under the blankets of his sofa. Instead, he struggles with the second set of keys before finally being faced with his chilly apartment.

Dick’s heart drops. The heating has cut out again, and the academy bursars won’t pay for the repairs. He trudges to the kitchen counter and fills up his kettle before emptying his pockets. His keys rattle against the counter, and Dick extricates the napkin from the mess of receipts in his right pocket. The ink has continued to bleed into the paper, and the writing is fuzzy and indistinct. Dick regards the number for a moment, mind casting back to the waitress who refilled his drink. Something clicks and Dick chastises himself for not putting it together sooner. Shaking his head, Dick reaches into a drawer before withdrawing a notepad and pencil. He hastily copy’s down the number and rips the page out of the pad, sticking it on the fridge with a tourist-y fridge magnet. 

Dick shrugs, and turns to make himself some tea. Maybe he won’t call the number and stick to his semi-monotonous lifestyle of study and team bonding time. But the distraction could be welcome, Dick reasons, and stirs his tea. Its not like he has anything left to lose.

It takes Dick three days to work up the courage to pull out his cell phone and call the number on his fridge, and he is pleasantly surprised by the genuine happiness he is met with. She seems bubbly and exudes energy, and her demeanour sparks something in Dick’s chest. Their conversation is brief yet productive: a date is set up at the Italian restaurant by the public library, and suddenly Dick’s world seems a little brighter.

Dick picks her up from the Silver Teakettle after her shift, and their date passes in a whirlwind of laughter and cheap wine. Her name is Catalina, yet her friends call her Cat, and she’s studying Liberal Arts at the Bludhaven Community College. She enjoys running and has a penchant for horror movies. She chews her lip when nervous. Dick memorises these details for future reference, and realises that this will not be their last date. 

Dick pays the bill and walks her home – he tries not to blush when her arm snakes around his. Eventually, they reach her apartment, and he is rewarded with a kiss and the promise of a second date. That too is followed by a third, and a fourth, and then a weekly meeting at one of the several family joints downtown. Somewhere down the line, they become something more, and they settle into their own comfortable routine of coffee dates and evening strolls.

Presently, Dick finds himself lying awake at her apartment, under the covers of her bed, watching as she sleeps beside him. Her mascara has smudged under her eyes, black flecks painting her eyelids. A stray strand of hair flutters every time she exhales and her breath ghosts over Dicks arm. She looks utterly beautiful.  
Dick smiles to himself, and stretches out, turning to look at the ceiling. There’s a crack by the light where the electrician had delivered less than stellar services. Dick sighs, and carefully slips out of the bed, and picked up his duffel bag. He’d promised her he’d stay the night, but Dick knew his words were empty. There was talk of a cartel relocating in Bludhaven, and Nightwing needed to stop them in their tracks. 

Dick collects his clothes from their positions on the floor and crouches by his duffel bag. He escapes to the bathroom and hurriedly extricates his suit and mask from the depths of his bag, replacing then with his balled up uniform. Dick takes a mental note to swing by his apartment to change before class the next day, and begins to tug on his suit. His change is speedy, and Nightwing emerges from the bathroom and creeps towards the window by the fire escape just as Cat turns in her sleep to face the hallway. Dick freezes, cursing himself for leaving the bedroom door open, and swiftly escapes into the lounge.

There’s window by the sofa that is just large enough for Dick to fit through, and Dick decides to leave through there instead of risking the hallway again. In fact, Dick is beginning to regret coming here in the first place, especially when he knew he couldn’t skip patrol. Risking his identity for an impromptu ‘sleepover’ is decidedly not one of his finer moments. Dick can almost hear the ghost of Bruce’s voice chastising him for his lack of sense. 

Dick hastily leaves a not on the kitchen table, explaining that the Academy wanted him in early for a random health examination (which wasn’t really that far from the truth – there was a fitness assessment early the next morning), before gently teasing the window open. Duffel bag slung over his shoulder, Dick slips through the window and out into the biting November rain. He pushes the glass down behind him and shoots his grappling hook towards the next building, body arcing as he is tugged forwards into the night. 

*

The end of November brings flurries of snow and grey sludge that clings to street corners, as fairy lights appear stretched across alleyways like clothes lines. Hell, Dick is certain he saw a pair of trousers slung over a string of coloured lightbulbs on his morning walk to the Academy.

Speaking of the Academy, Dick is snowed under with the amount of final projects and essays he has due before the holidays. The winter break is looming, as are deadlines. Thankfully the beginning of the Christmas season has brought an unusual lull in crime, and Dick is taking full advantage of it while he can.  
Throwing himself into his school work is a blessing in disguise, because it distracts him from the rapidly growing issue of his Christmas arrangements. It’s not like he’s not wanted: there’s an open invitation from Wally to join the infamous Allen-West family celebrations (though as much as he loves Wally, willingly subjecting himself to an entire dynasty of speedsters is sort of like torturing a cat with a group of extroverted toddlers on a sugar high), and M’gann and Con have also extended an invite to their mishmash of winter-time holidays (they seemed to have bundled countless winter time celebrations and traditions together through a series of misguided attempts at cultural research, and everyone else has found it too hilarious to correct them.)

This as it may be, Dick cannot imagine a Christmas without Bruce, though no matter how much he’s removed himself from the latter’s life, he’s still stung that not even Alfred has mentioned anything. Old wounds were opening with a vengeance. Wisps of a distant memory tug at the edges of his eyes every so often, dredging around images of ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’ and Alfred’s signature hot chocolate. And Alfred himself, and the famous Christmas jumpers, and the three of them eating turkey and slightly burned Yorkshire pudding and-

To put it simply, this is Dick’s first Christmas alone, and he is scared _shitless_.

So when Cat asks him what his family’s plans are for Christmas, he tells her he doesn’t have a family. 

(It feels like a point of no return, and in many ways, it is: but the literal truth is still there, and Dick is more than happy to pretend that the technicalities are worth more than their implications.)

It answers a lot of questions for her at least: she’s been angling to meet his parents ever since they hit the two-month mark. There’s an episode of almost-tears on the couch one night, and she hugs him and offers him an out – dinner with her family in the centre of the city.

He takes the opportunity and runs with it.

His first term of study at the Academy ends in a whirlwind of deadlines, exams and nervous breakdowns, yet somehow, between the all-nighters and countless empty cans of Red Bull, Dick escapes with good spirits and even better grades. He calls Wally for the first time since this whole mess of academic responsibility began, and they hastily agree to meet at the family diner a couple blocks away from the city hall for one of the most enjoyable breakfasts Dick has experienced since arriving at Bludhaven.

“So, now that you’re off for the year, got any ideas on where you’re gonna go this Christmas?” Wally asks between mouthfuls of sticky waffles. Dick sips his coffee to avoid the question, and Wally immediately cocks his head to the side.

“What?”

Dick ducks his head.

“Well, as much as I’d love to hang out with the entire Speedster clan-“

“And Artemis, Artemis is gonna be there.” Wally adds, only it comes out a little garbled behind the mouthful of syrupy carbs.

“ _And_ Artemis, I’ve been. . . asked to-“ Dick pauses to take  
another sip of coffee to hide his hesitation. It doesn’t work.

“Well, let’s just say I’ve, uh, met someone, and that someone would like me to come and meet their family, and I agreed.”

Wally almost chokes on his waffle, and Dick snickers sheepishly into his mug.

“Jesus fuck you kept that quiet! When were you going to tell me?”  
Dick supresses a grin that still manages to curve his mouth into a smile.

“Well y’know, I didn’t want to say anything to anyone before I knew it was actually gonna go somewhere, and between school and crimefighting everything just moved so quickly-“

Wally cuts him off.

“I’m glad, I’m really glad.” Wally begins, and Dick raises an eyebrow whilst still hiding behind his coffee. Wally waggles a forkful of waffle at his friend.

“Really, I am. I mean, of course I want you over, but I’m glad you’ve got someone outside of the superhero world. Don’t think I didn’t notice how insular everything was getting for you. Especially when Clark started getting involved.”

Dick sighed at the mention of Clark. The Kryptonian meant well, but only because it was biologically impossible for him not to, and the doting had become a little suffocating.

“But honestly, you’ve done so well these past couple of months, and not to get sappy, but I’m proud of you. So don’t worry, I won’t take its personally if you decide not to show up to the Spectacular Speedster Family Extravaganza.” Wally waves his fork again for good measure, and a piece of waffle finds itself on the tiled floor. Dick laughs, and takes a bite out of his toast.

“And anyway, there’s always Boxing Day at the Mountain.” 

Come to think of it, Boxing Day with the team did sound like a good idea. Dick made a mental note to free up the day.

“Oh and uh, speaking of. . . Alfred’s been asking after you, by the way.”

Wally’s tone is light but decidedly tentative, and the entire mood shifts. Dick sets down his mug as a jolt of anxiety settles in his stomach.

“I was gonna give him your new cell number but I thought I’d ask you first.” Wally explains.

Dick takes a steadying break, and the nerves in his stomach unwind. He misses Alfred, and the butler had nothing to do with Dick’s current estrangement from Bruce. In fact, Dick was pretty sure the man downright disapproved. Of course he would give Alfred his number.

“Yeah sure, no problem.” Dick replies, and he relaxes somewhat. Wally visibly slackens, perhaps anticipating a more emotionally charged response.

Despite that minor bump in the road, the rest of the meal passes in amicable conversation, and Dick is reluctant to leave once the cheque is settled. He walks Wally back to the car park by the City Hall (Wally had decided against running on this particular occasion, as the ice on the roads was, in his words, ‘killer’), and they share a brief hug before Wally pulls out and trundles away. 

Dick watches him leave, a smile creeping onto his lips. 

Maybe, finally, things were on the up again.


	2. Early Mornings, Late Winter, and Idle Introspection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything is still, too still - like the calm before the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this update came surprisingly quickly - I've had a loooot of free time recently, so I've managed to turn this out pretty speedily.  
> I'm really pleased with this chapter, so I hope you enjoy this! This one is pretty introspective, so though the scenes sort of jump around, I think the narrative is still pretty linear, but if you have any concerns, tell me what might need to be changed/clarified!
> 
> Also, Imma slap a quick trigger warning here for a brief mention of abuse, a few really vague mentions of self harm, and a sorta graphic panic attack. So please be careful! I really don't wanna ruin any of you guy's days!
> 
> Whelp, now that _that_ has all been sorted, Enjoy the chapter!

February in Bludhaven is mercilessly cold, and Dick realises he’ll have to sacrifice his first pay check of the year to buy himself a decent winter jacket as he shivers into his sweater. Dragging his boots aimlessly through the coating of dirt-heavy slush that clogs up the pavement, Dick is intensely aware of the periodic buzzing of his phone, but he ignores it in favour of twitching his head over his shoulder every five seconds, uncomfortable with the deafening, syrupy silence settled over the city. 

The stars are hidden behind wisps of grey clouds, and the fluorescence of the streetlamps is suspended in mid-air by bitter, drizzling rain. Dick’s wandering is purposefully aimless: he’ll wait until he is chilled to the bone before seeking shelter from the storm. It feels like self-punishment, but it’s really denial – he is too exhausted to think about everything that has unfolded over the past few weeks.

Christmas day itself had been a cosy, understated affair book-ended by dry turkey, awkward small talk, and a slightly drunken group viewing of ‘Deck the Halls’, studded with cheap paper decorations and glasses of homemade eggnog. Cat’s parents had been kind enough and though they quickly abandoned clumsy questions surrounding his _own_ family, they were at least impressed with his ambitions to become a police officer (though her father wasn’t exactly _pleased_ with Dick’s financial prospects), and he parted with them on friendly terms. Overall, the entire experience was somewhat pleasant: Dick has made far worse first impressions.

The buzz of his phone pushes through the silence once more and pumps an ice into Dick’s veins that has nothing to do with the weather. He knows, rationally, that he ought to just go back to his apartment, pretend nothing ever happened, and snatch some semblance of a night’s rest before class. He really ought to just shove everything away for the moment and return to it when he can think a little straighter. 

Or bury it and never mention it again. 

Boxing Day too had passed in a whirlwind of festivity. Cat had been invited out to a meal with the other servers from the Silver Teakettle, and whilst Dick had told her that his ‘godparents wanted him to visit’ weeks before, she was still put out when he declined her offer of a plus-one. She made him promise to be back before eight that night, and Dick tried to laugh off her insistence despite the steely glint behind her eyes.

(Needless to say, her frown haunted him throughout the day, and Dick said his goodbyes a little earlier than he had planned.)

His phone buzzes again. 

Dick speeds up, and the drizzling rain shifts as sleet begins to fall, catching in the amber glow of the streetlamps. A cloud of condensation rises above the streets, framing the night with a surreal copper blush. He’s willing himself to go home, and part of him wants nothing more than to crash on the sofa and sleep for an age, but he instead circles the same five blocks near his old apartment whilst his hands freeze in his pockets. 

Dick debates forcing the lock on his old apartment, but even then, he’s moved everything important over to Cat’s. It’d be easier, she’d said, for them to live together. 

_And besides, I want to wake up next to you._

She’d flattered him that night, and perhaps it was the prosecco she’d plied him with, or the shitty romcoms they where watching, but when she had asked, Dick had no choice but to say _yes_.

She’d asked him again, afterwards, just to make sure, and still Dick had agreed. The paperwork involved in reducing his bursary was complex and riddled with bureaucratic nonsense, but Dick had believed it was worth it to wake up next to her each morning. Just like she had wanted.

The downside of this was that only thing left in his apartment was a ratty armchair, a rickety table and its chairs, and the spare Nightwing costume hidden under the floorboards. 

Either way, he couldn’t turn back now. 

Dick’s phone buzzes again and he almost jumps out of his skin. He keeps walking, and mist settles on the shoulders of Bludhaven.

Dick’s phone buzzes again and he shivers into his jacket. He supresses the urge to sprint.

Dick’s phone buzzes again.

Dick’s phone buzzes again.

Dick’s phone buzzes again.

_Hisphonebuzzesagainhisphonebuzzesagainbuzzesagainbuzzesagainbuzzes-_

Dick stops at a bus shelter and perches on the bench, extricating his phone from his trouser pocket with his frozen hands. He opens his phone and the time flashes up on the screen. It’s practically morning. 

He scrolls to the bottom of his notifications and reads them from the safety of his home screen – he doesn’t want to reply if he can help it.

He skips through the first few messages, insults falling on deaf ears. Dick’s been called far worse, a lot worse, but somehow this stings more than the petty digs of the city’s low-lifes. Then there’s the pleading, the _I’m sorry’_ s , the _please come back’_ s, the _it won’t happen again’_ s. These weigh down on his chest, pinching his lungs. There are more insults, but these are not the sloppy workings of anger, but expertly crafted, malicious observations that steal Dick’s breath more efficiently than any winter’s storm. 

He continues to read, riveted, through all the _I love you’_ s and the _I hate you_ ’s and the _I never meant to hit that hard, I’m sorry, just come back._

Dick is shivering violently, and his cheek hurts – he hadn’t noticed the pain until she mentioned it. Gingerly raising a hand to his face, Dick is surprised when he feels heat – it must be beginning to bruise. The sensation is oddly comforting, but Dick resists the temptation to give into it.

Dick’s phone buzzes again.

_Baby, I’m sorry._

Against his better judgement, Dick replies.

_Okay._

She replies instantly.

_Thank god, I thought you’d gone and done something stupid. Where are you?_

Dick exhales shakily before replying.

_Near my old apartment._

She types,the bubble disappearing for a moment, and types again.

_I thought you moved all your stuff over to mine._

The full stop feels like a challenge and Dick can almost hear the poorly veiled anger emanating from his phone. He doesn’t reply, brain slowly checking out of the situation and leaving his body to stare blankly at his shoes. Static buzzes in his peripheral vision-

_Dick?_

The buzz shocks him back into reality. He attempts to reply.

_Some of the furniture is still there. Got a couple of changes of clothes that I forgot to pack as well. Was gonna stay there for a bit._

It’s a lie, and they both know it.

_Dick, just come home._

He stares at the screen, hopelessly indecisive.

_Dick._

_Give me half an hour._

Dick pockets his phone without reply and gets to his feet, joints protesting against the cold. She’s right, of course. She always is. Cat has always been able to see past the layers of anxiety and charm Dick smothers himself in. She pulls him out of his head and exposes the clarity he so desperately seeks. 

Dick sighs, and watches his breath curl upwards and catches in the feeble strands of dawn that break through the clouds. 

She’s right. He needs to come home.

*

Things are better for a while, and as the next semester begins, Dick settles back into his routine of class, coffee dates with Cat and breakfasts with Wally. He’s got crime down to an uncharacteristic low after an admittedly impressive one-man raid on the largest gang in the city, and this allows him even more free time for his civilian life. 

But since that tiny altercation (miniscule, infinitesimal, _unimportant_ ) something had shifted. It was almost as though someone had moved all the furniture in Cat’s (their) apartment an inch to left – everything felt a little off-kilter. 

Cat is as sweet as ever, and on the surface, life is going swimmingly. Late night movies, haphazard baking escapades in their tiny kitchen, downtown concerts and uptown theatre shows – Dick is living a life of surprising ease, and it’s all because of Cat. He finds it a little too easy to accept the good for the bad (that’s what Dick calls it anyway) and ignore the crease that periodically graces Cat’s forehead.

Yet, occasionally, Dick finds himself awake in bed, watching Cat sleep and contemplating the direction of his life.

Each time he hovers somewhere between regret and uncertainty, and each time his logic gets the best of him.

He’s _happy._

He’s happy with her. _Because_ of her.

(At least, that’s what he tells himself when her grip on his wrist gets a little too tight.)

So when Dick finds himself teetering on the edge of a building after another routine night of patrol, he realises that something isn’t quite adding up. 

A gale has been churning up the layers of smog plastered over the sky for the past couple of hours, and gritty dust begins to cling to the edges of the scrape on Dick’s cheek. The sting is pulling at his focus, which is probably a good thing – not that he’s leaning on the pain like a crutch, he’s not, he’s not – because the majority of his attention is wasted gluing his eyes to the void of concrete below him. 

He’s stuck in some sort of hazy contemplation, and Dick’s peripheries are tingling, static buzzing in his ears underneath the roaring wind. The ground below him is singular and transfixing, and he is oddly enchanted by the way the damp concrete glitters in flickering street-light and-

A sudden surge of awareness rushes over Dick and he jerks away, stumbling backwards from the ledge. Something icy streams into his veins and suddenly everything around him is _too much_ , and _too close_ , and he feels like his limbs are stuck in syrup and he’s run a hundred miles and he’s being crushed in and pulled apart and-

_theledgeisrightthereandhecouldhavejustdoneitifhehadtheballshecouldhavejustjumpedbuthecantandhesstuckhesstuckhesstuckhesisstuckhere-_

It all stops hurting after a while (somewhere between a moment and several eternities) and Dick is left floating numbly somewhere to the right of himself. He’s still stuck in syrup and he’s breathing like he’s just run a marathon, but the same haze has again settled like a blanket around him. 

Dick thinks his soul is planning to bail on his body. At this point, Dick doesn’t blame it. 

He would too, given the chance.

Eventually, some semblance of feeling returns with the dawn. Dick is exhausted, and he feels as though his suit the only thing keeping him together.

At least it’s over now, Dick tells himself as he clambers down the fire escape. 

It’s over now and he’s fine. 

Dick repeats the words under his breath, and it feels like a promise and an order and a feeble reassurance that could blow away in the breeze. 

It doesn’t matter. 

“It’s over now, and I’m _fine_.”

*

The first Saturday of March rolls around and Dick is once again with Wally catching a late breakfast at their customary diner. This time, Wally has opted for a stack of toast and a mound of bacon and eggs and takes to waggling a piece of greasy meat on the end of his fork as he speaks.

Wally is prattling on about his college course, and usually Dick would be hanging off of his every word, but between his mounting exhaustion and the fact that he’s ninety percent certain that ‘What’s New Pussycat’ has been playing on loop for the last half an hour, he’s finding it difficult to focus on anything apart from the churning weight that has slowly been settling at the bottom of his stomach since the middle of February.

It’s been a solid couple of weeks since Dick’s ‘funny turn’ (he calls it that to avoid the truth – after everything that’s happened, the last thing he needs is a relapse, no matter the state of his thighs) and between the Academy and his latest case as Nightwing, Dick has been slowly working himself into a stupor. It’s a _miracle_ that he hasn’t accidentally revealed his identity to Cat. 

“Are you even _listening_ to me?” 

Dick drags his eyes from the void of his coffee cup back up to Wally’s features.

“I’m sorry, I’m just kinda tired.”

“No shit, you look like you haven’t slept in a week.” Wally replies, though not unkindly.

Dick hides his hesitation by taking a gulp of the still-scalding coffee, and the burning does a little to bring him out of thought.

“Everything’s okay, right? Like, you’re not, y’know. . .” 

Wally’s voice drops and Dick winces at the pity poorly veiled by empathy.

“It’s fine, just work at the academy.” 

Wally still looks unconvinced, and Dick panicks internally, though he’s not entirely sure why.

“Is it Cat? Or-“

“No.” Dick replies hastily, and Wally frowns.

“Look, Dick, I get that you’re not a hundred percent on the whole trust thing, especially after- but you can talk to me, okay? I’m not gonna-“

“I’ve just got a pretty crazy case going on at the moment.” Dick interrupts, and almost sighs with relief when Wally eases.

“Ah, right. Figures.”

Dick nods and takes a strategic bite of pancake to avoid follow up questions.

“Anything I can help with?”

Dick shakes he head, mouth full.

“Nah, its not harrowing or difficult or anything, there’s just a lot of research and planning and all that jazz.”

There’s a slight lapse in the conversation, and for a moment Dick thinks Wally can see right through him. 

Only there’s no lie this time. He’s not hiding anything, least of all from his best friend.

“I uh, got a phone call from Clark the other day,” Dick says, his voice deliberately casual. 

Wally doesn’t notice a thing, and Dick suddenly feels a little foolish. 

“Oh really, what did he say?”

“Y’know, just the usual mother-henning. I think he’s convinced himself I’m incapable of taking care of myself at all,” Dick chuckles, and Wally snorts.

“I mean it’s not like you have a stellar reputation in the functional-human-being department, especially when you cook.”

Dick’s face contorts in mock outrage and he playfully kicks Wally under the table.

“I can cook!”

“Ah yes, charred jacket potato and the occasional pot noodle. True Michelin star cuisine.”

Wally waggles his fork a little too enthusiastically and ends up knocking his glass of orange juice. Both break into peals of giggles and Dick eventually flags down a bemused waitress for napkins whilst Wally sags, snickering, in the corner of his booth.

“Anyway, Cat usually cooks. That, or we get take-out.”

“Fair enough,” Wally says, and pauses for a moment.

“Y’know, I still haven’t met Cat.”

“Yes you have, just after New Years, remember? You came over to the apartment.”

“Yeah, but like, actually. I only ended up chatting with her for like five minutes before she had to leave. I mean, I don’t think your relationship and your friendships should be, y’know, mutually exclusive. . .”

Wally suddenly sits up.

“Hey, we should totally do a double date!”

Something in Dick’s stomach flips.

“Uh, I don’t know man, is that really the best idea? I mean, we’re all masks and Cat doesn’t know about the whole superhero thing, I don’t want to let something slip or anything, and-“

“Dude, don’t worry, it was just an idea.” Wally replies. He attempts a laugh and Dick tries to smile into it, but both fall a little flat. 

There’s another lull, only this one stretches a little longer, and Dick’s gaze plants itself firmly back into his coffee cup.

He looks up to Wally after a brief moment to find the speedster watching him, a crease forming between his eyebrows.

Wally leans forward, and his gaze flicks down to Dick’s wrists. 

The back of Dick's neck tingles in response, and he very deliberately chooses to ignore it.

“Dick, are you sure you’re okay?”

There’s that same, infuriatingly understanding look in Wally’s green eyes, and memories of heart-breaking teenage conversations swirl beneath Dick's skull, framed with hushed tones and shaking shoulders and long-sleeved shirts. Just the thought of repeating a mere part of that cycle drains what little energy struggling through Dick’s veins.

“I’m fine.”

Dick smiles, and it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoyed that! 
> 
> (I'm totally not projecting onto Dick in that last scene, what do you mean haha. . . )
> 
> Expect another update in a week or two, and then after that thinks may get a little sporadic as I've got a round of exams coming up which are gonna take up the most of my time, after which I'll be back to posting as normal!
> 
> Also, comment down below if you've spotted the John Mulaney reference!
> 
> Thanks for reading, comments and/or kudos are very much appreciated!


	3. Don't Hang Up on Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick gets into a little bit of a pickle, and Clark tries his best to help him out of the wider situation. Trigger Warning for vomit, injury and self-destructive use of alcohol and pain medication, on top of all the trigger warnings in the tags.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, I'm back! Sorry for the kinda massive delay in putting this chapter out, and I won't make any excuses, but here it is! I'm really satisfied with this, I think it really sets us up for a good second act in the following chapters. Things really aren't going well for Dick in this chapter, and this deals with some of the heavier themes in this story a lot more plainly, so watch out for that if the trigger-warned content bothers you. Also, for ultra-immersion, listen to Nosebleed by Pheobe Green for the first part of the chapter (I listened to that on loop whilst writing it haha), and then I Must Cry Out Loud by Mother Mother, The Night We Met by Lord Huron, and Cold Blood by Josiah and The Bonnevilles (again, I listened to these three tracks on loop whilst writing the rest of this chapter).  
> That's all from me, so enjoy!

Dick faces himself in cracked bathroom mirror, dabbing gingerly at his neck. There isn’t any glass embedded in his skin, thank god, but the cuts still sting as he applies anti-septic. The wash-cloth balled up in his hand is tinged with a patchy pink, and Dick winces as he drags it a little _too_ firmly against his skin.

After several mediocre attempts, he eventually gives up on sticking plasters over the worst of the cuts, and instead gently pulls off his t-shirt, wincing as his bad shoulder aches at the movement. The bruising is worse than he thought – a dull lavender blotch has begun blossom on his upper arm, fingerprints plum against his milky skin. There’s a particularly nasty burst blood vessel darkening on his left ribs, and it twinges each time he inhales.

Raising his gaze to the mirror, Dick stares back at his glassy-eyed reflection, rubbing at the graze on his cheekbone. Exhaustion trickles through his veins, and suddenly Dick is hyper-aware of the weight of his limbs, the light stinging his eyes, the draught from the window. Everything is immediate and overwhelming, and Dick wants nothing more than to curl up and sob. He settles for a half-hearted stretch that wrenches at every mark on his skin.

 It was his fault, really.    

Between the never-ending mounds of coursework and a string of incredibly bloody murders, Dick had been all but oblivious to the steady march of January, instead choosing to chain himself to his overtaxed laptop, slowly establishing himself as a permanent fixture of the Silver Teakettle, much to Cat’s amusement.

March had given way for April’s sodden showers, washing away essays and reports in favour of mid-terms and lazy Sundays. Cat's birthday came and went in a flurry of laughter and chocolate flavoured kisses, though the weekend that followed was stained with the brutal murder of a family two blocks away from Cat’s (his) apartment.

The weeks that followed were stressful for everyone - there was talk of sightings in the alley behind their building, and officers began calling at all hours of the day with endless question and accusations. Cat herself had been subjected to a ‘quick chat’ that had lasted the whole afternoon.

So she was justified, sort-of.

Anyway, she promised she didn’t mean it.

Dick shakes himself from his reverie and downs a handful of Advil in an attempt to dull the ache of his shoulder before quietly exits the bathroom. He peeks into the bedroom, finding Cat sprawled across his side of the bed. Her mascara has pooled on her lower lids, and her left hand is dangling off the bed. She looks endearingly beautiful.

Something twists in Dick’s chest and he jerks from the door, instead grabbing his jacket and heading for the doors. He fumbles a little with the keys (the lock is temperamental at the best of times) before finally opening the door, wincing as it scrapes against the laminate flooring.

Dick squints against the neon lights of the stairwell, and briefly checks his wallet. His footsteps echo against the concrete steps, and for a moment his situation seems eerily surreal. He blinks back a wave of tiredness before exciting into the night.

There’s a bar on the corner of Sixth and Victoria that stays open until well past midnight, and Dick walks for what feels like hours through a haze of headlights and smog until he arrives at the familiar red-lit sign.

It’s uncomfortably warm inside, and the chatter of patrons presses in on his skin. Dick heads straight for the bar, the state of his face causing a gaggle of twenty-something bachelorettes jump back. He settles for the corner stool, by the entrance to the bathroom (he’s learned from experience that Advil and alcohol don’t tend to mix), and growls out an order to the bartender, who knows better (from experience) to refuse Dick the first of many vodka oranges.

Dick knows he’s being pathetically self-destructive, knows that feeding this angry, ravenous part of his mind is only going to hurt him in the long run, knows he’s going to regret this once his head is halfway down a toilet bowl. But for the moment he is quite comfortable to smother his voice of reason with badly-mixed drinks and the staticky buzz of mingling conversations.

 (His voice of reason sounds a hell of a lot like Wally, and it bounces around his skull and preys upon the shame he’s tried so hard to supress.)

The bartender returns with his drink, and Dick immediately snatches a gulp, grimacing slightly as it burns, coursing down his throat. It’s followed by a wash of vindictive satisfaction, and Dick’s jumbled thoughts flitter briefly to Bruce. A bitter laugh forces itself from his throat, drawing the furtive stare of the bartender, and Dick swallows it down with another mouthful of liquor and watery orange juice.

Some small part of Dick _wants_ Bruce to find him like this, damaged and broken inside out, to show him just how hurt he is on the inside, to scream _look at what you did to me, I’m broken, I’m ruined-_

He settles for ordering another drink.

And another.

And another.

 *

It’s a little after one in the morning and Clark Kent is dead on his feet. After the sheer hell that had been a five-day space mission, he had seriously considered just flying from the nearest zeta back to his apartment. Unlike the others, Batman had found this quip less than amusing. Which was probably (hopefully) due to his singed cape rather than the comment itself.

Either way, he deserves a vacation. Preferably Hawaii.

Clark soon decides to crash at the League’s Earth building whilst peeling off the remains of his ash-stained suit. He really doesn’t fancy the journey to Metropolis, especially at this hour, and he can take the zeta over to the Mountain in the morning and catch up with Connor.

The kid was nice really, once Clark had managed to crack his prickly exterior. It was surprising how similar they were once their superhero personas were discarded, and their relationship has blossomed from the awkwardly amicable to a tentative mentorship.

Clark only feels a little guilty that it took Dick and Bruce’s legendary falling out to show him the light.

Clark’s halfway through brushing his teeth when he hears his phone buzz in the locker room. Clark rolls his eyes and spits out the remains of some vaguely minty toothpaste, leaving the phone to ring. It’s probably Bruce, asking after minute details for the mission report. It can wait until the rapidly approaching morning.

Clark frowns when his phone starts to buzz again, and this time he ducks into the locker room to put it on silent, only to find Dick’s caller ID on his lock screen. Brow furrowed, he answers the phone.

“Hey. . . Clark? It’s Dick.”

Clark’s frown deepens.

“What’s up?”

“Can you. . . no I don’t have any keys, I don’t have a car. . . sorry Clark, bear with me- no y’see that’s what I was jus’-“

Behind Dick’s muffled stutters Clark can hear tinkling glasses and giggly chatter, tell-tale signs of a bar.

“Want me to pick you up?”

“Please.”

Clark sighs down the line, tugging on a pair of clean socks.

“Right, text me the address and I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Thanks. See ya.”

There’s a quaver in Dick’s voice that makes Clark hesitate, though Dick hangs up before he can reassure him.

Clark drives down the freeway a little faster than normal.

It turns out Dick _was_ at a bar, and a sleazy one at that. Dick was waiting outside by the time that Clark pulled up to the curb, shivering into his too-thin jacket. The jacket Clark had urged him to replace months ago. He rolls down the window.

“Hey, Dick!”

Dick looks up, a deer in headlights, and his black eye is thrown into vivid relief. Clark’s jaw works for a moment as he tries to assess the situation. The moment passes before Clark can say anything, and Dick plops into the passenger seat, silent.

“Why’d you call?”

Dick keeps his eyes planted firmly in front of him.

“The guy at the bar said I wasn’t. . . sober enough. To go home on m’ own.”

Dick’s phone pings.

“You okay?”

Dick continues to stare ahead. His phone pings again.

Clark waits, hoping the stretching silence will encourage Dick to speak.

“Just. . . take me back to my apartment. Please.”

Clark fiddles with the satnav for a few minutes, switching between the same three setting pages, waiting for Dick to speak up.

Dick stares listlessly at the traffic outside.

“What happened to your eye? Patrol?”

Dick’s phone pings _again_ , and this time Dick fishes it out of his pocket, scrolling through the messages on his lock screen. Dick’s heartbeat picks up, pushing at Clark’s eardrums.

“Uh yeah. Yeah, it was.”

Dick’s phone pings again. Clark hears Dick’s breath hitch.

“We can wait if you want to answer that.” Clark smiles tentatively, trying to break the awkwardness.

“It’s just a groupchat,” Dick mumbles, reading the last message. Clark nods along, unconvinced, but before he can add anything else, Dick’s phone begins to ring.

Dick scrambles to answer it.

“Hiya-“

“Where the _fuck_ are you?”

Dick blanches, and Clark turns back to his satnav, trying to ignore the shouting match that was evidently about to happen. Dick holds the phone to his chest, vainly trying to muffle the microphone.

“I’m. . . gonna step outside.”

Fleeing back to the pavement, Dick continues his conversation, knowing full well that Clark can hear exactly what’s going on. Cat is beyond furious, and Dick’s feeble attempts to calm her down have no effect whatsoever.

Dick’s long since learned to zone Cat out during one of her episodes, and he takes the opportunity to sneak a glance at Clark. He’s staring straight through the windshield, knuckles stretched white on the steering wheel. 

In a moment of vodka-fueled courage, Dick hangs up on her mid-insult, and strongly considers throwing his phone (and himself) into oncoming traffic.

Instead he retreats back into the car and tries to ignore Clark’s gaze. The tension between them weighs down on his shoulders. He fights down the tremble in his throat.

“Wanna go get waffles?”

Dick’s head snaps up.

“Waffles?”

“Waffles. Best hangover cure. You’ve got class tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Then let’s try and nip this in the bud.”

“ ‘M not _that_ drunk.”

“Okay.”

Clark finally pulls away from the curb, weaving through the neon-lit streets. Dick closes his eyes for a moment, trying to force a forming headache back into the depths of his skull, and the moment he opens his eyes again they’re outside a diner.

It’s not his favourite, the quirky little joint that he frequents with Wally. This one is a cleaner, and seems to be slightly more reputable. From the outside it appears to be mostly empty, though a flickering neon sign promises twenty-four-hour service.

Dick trails behind Clark as they both enter the diner, placing most of his attention onto tinny jazz playing from the jukebox in the corner. They’re seated by a frazzled-looking waitress, and Dick sinks into the cracking leather of their booth whilst Clark orders for the both of them. Dick takes this time to fish through his pockets, only to find that his phone isn’t nestled comfortably between his jeans and his thigh.

“I. . . left my phone. In the car.”

“I think you could use a break from that thing,” Clark replies, still perusing the menu. He turns back to the waitress.

“We’ll take the hash browns as well. And coffee.”

The waitress shuffles away, clearly new to the graveyard shift, leaving Clark and Dick in uncomfortable silence. Clark gets up only to return a brief while later with a day-old newspaper. Dick watches condensation form on the windows whilst his head buzzes.

Mercifully, the waitress returns a short while later with coffee, and Dick sips at the first few scalding mouthfuls, reading articles upside down whilst Clark catches up on the advertisement page.

“ So, how’s the Academy?”

Dick looks up to find Clark still reading.

“Good. It’s good. More interesting than I thought it’d be.”

There’s a pause as Clark folds the paper and turns to his own mug.

“You sure about that?.”

Dick swallows, gaze pulled to the window. Clark seems to realise he’s mis-stepped, and he softens his gaze.

“Look, I just want to make sure you’re not taking on more than you can handle. You can always tell me if you’re having trouble at school, okay?”

“Yeah, it’s fine. I’m just finding it hard to balance academics and a relationship on top of all the mask stuff,” Dick hesitates, waiting for Clark’s reaction. “I’m just a little burned out after midterms.”

Clark leans back in his chair, satisfied, whilst Dick mirrors him in relief.

“But your classes are interesting?”

 “ Yeah. We’re doing this one. . . it’s like, uh, forensics 101, it’ really cool.”

“How’re you and your girlfriend?”

The hash browns arrive, as do a stack of waffles. Dick is thankful for the distraction, and continues to avoid answering the question by shovelling syrup-soaked waffle into his mouth.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, we’re uhm. . .”

“Wally had mentioned to me that you moved in with her.”

“Yeah.”

“He said you seemed a little. . . distracted, last time he visited.”

“Just stretched a little thin with the Academy, I s’pose.”

“Stretched a little _too_ thin?”

Dick continues with his waffles. Clark’s building up to something, and Dick’s brain (and stomach) is too soupy for him to concentrate. Clark refills both of their coffees with the dented coffeepot that had been left on their table, before taking a decidedly pointed sip from his own mug. Dick continues to cram waffle into his mouth whilst a detached part of his brain tells him that he should start to avoid diners, and their tendency to encourage uncomfortable conversations.

“What’s going on, Dick?”

Dick shrugs, chewing a mouthful of waffle which is rapidly turning into sugary sludge.

Clark sighs.

“People don’t usually get drunk on a Wednesday evening for no reason.”

“Most people aren’t superhuman aliens.”

Dick knows he’s poking a stick at a bear, knows he should try and make his excuses a little more believable, knows he should try and make an effort to at least _appear_ to be doing well. But a small part of him wants to be caught out.

Clark drains his mug, and places it on the table none-too-gently.

“And your phone-call?”

“I just lost track of time. Cat gets worried.”

“That didn’t sound worried to me.”

Dick’s stomach turns, though he can’t tell if it’s due to the alcohol or his building anxiety.

“Can we get the cheque soon?”

“Not until you talk to me.”

Clark sounds startlingly like Bruce, and Dick is whisked away to those late-night ‘meetings’ in the cave that began as conversations and ended in tears.

“I’m. . . gonna go to the bathroom.”

Dick jumps up, and practically runs towards the doorway, trying to ignore the way Clark’s gaze bores into his back.

Regret wells up in his lungs as Dick ducks into the disabled bathroom, hands trembling as he fiddles with the lock. Exhaustion is pooling in his limbs and at this point Dick isn’t sure if he can even remember which part of his life he’s running from this time. The last vestiges of alcohol have swirled his memories of the past day together into a vortex of panic, and Dick has the irrational urge to leave the diner from the basement and make his own way home. Everything has taken on a plastic quality, and Dick can feel his heart hammering through his chest.

Suddenly everything is too much, way too much, his heart beating out of control, panic rising up in his throat-

 Dick loses his waffles bent over the toilet bowl, and prays to god that Clark isn’t listening.

*

“Hey, Bruce?”

“What.”

“You busy?”

“What is it?”

“I wanted to talk to you about something important.”

“Just get on with it, Clark.”

Clark swallows, gazing out from his car window. Dick is struggling with the keys to the stairwell of his apartment building.

“It’s about Dick.”

“. . . right.”

“I know you don’t like talking about it, I get it, but – look. Dick, he’s not. . . He’s not in a good way.”

“Well Nightwing seems to be holding his own in Bludhaven quite well. According to the press, anyway.”

“This isn’t about- you know what? Never mind.”

“And you’ve told me he’s doing perfectly well in the Academy.”

Clark watches as Dick finally manages to pry the fire-door open, wincing at the sound of it scraping across concrete.

“I was with him just now and I-“

“Why?”

“He called me from a bar.”

“A _bar._ ”

Clark can hear the jangle of Dick’s keys in another door, and the creak of old hinges. There’s silence, and he strains to hear the momentary quickening of Dick’s heartbeat. And then-

“Clark?”

Clark’s focus snaps back to Bruce, and he grips his steering wheel.

“Let’s talk after the debriefing tomorrow, okay? This isn’t something we can hash out over the phone.”

“Fine.”

Clark pulls away from the curb, the hum of his engine muffling the thump of furniture on carpet sounding several stories above.

“And Bruce? Start taking care of your kid, you-“

Bruce hangs up, and Clark pulls over, nearly ripping his steering wheel from its joint.

Above, he can hear the tinkle of shattering glass.


	4. Two Conversations, Memories of High School, and a Distinct Lack of Caffeine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark and Bruce talk, hindered by the backdrop of the league. Dick attempts to go to class, with mixed results.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! And off school officially until 28th of August so that means: Regular Updates!   
> I've really enjoyed writing this chapter, even though it is a little bit of a transition into the second and third act of the story. But there ought to be enough character exploration here to offset the distinct lack of action? Also this might be SuperBat if you squint suuuuuper hard, but that wasn't my intention when i wrote this. Also before we get started, tiny trigger warning for non-in-depth discussion of abuse. Enjoy!

The vent system in the conference room is broken, and from the outset the meeting is a write off – it’s way too hot to think. Clark spends half the debrief watching Ray fiddle around with damaged fuses in the ceiling, too distracted by the cloying air to take in Barry’s ramblings. A sneaky glance around the room assures him that he’s not alone in his distraction – J’onn and Arthur seem more focused on their iced waters than the capture-to-casualty ratio of the alien terrorists they’d fought a week beforehand.

The meeting ends with a tentative offer from Diana for everyone to take as much rest as possible, whilst she scribbles into a diary, preemptively circling dates for a second meeting once everyone sits down to write their mission reports only to find they can’t remember anything. Everyone shuffles out into the blessed cool of the hallway, and Clark tries to catch Bruce’s eye as he slips out of the room.

“Br- Batman!”

 Clark’s voice carries across the hall, and the buzz of conversation dulls.

“A word?”

The lenses of the cowl squint as Clark catches up to him, whilst a couple of star-struck new recruits sidle out of his way.

“Superman.”

“ About that phone call earlier-“

“I would rather not have this conversation in the hallway for everyone to hear.”

“Sure,” Clark shrugs, “I’ve gotta take my shift at Control, we can talk there. I’m sure Mr Terrific wouldn’t mind switching with you.”

“Fine.”

They start down the hallway, Bruce’s cape fluttering against the floor. Clark keeps pace beside him, skin prickling at the growing silence. Usually, Bruce’s snarky-ness is served with at least some semblance of wit, even whilst they’re being shot at by telekinetic aliens, but now he just seems annoyed.

Clark hopes the following conversation won’t frazzle some already short fuses.

“So, how’s Gotham?”

“Fine.”

“And Jason? I heard Kaldur wanted to trial him for the team.”

“He’s fine.”

Clark rolls his eyes as they rounded the corner. Typical.

“Bruce, come on, this isn’t the Spanish Inquisition.”

“Really? Because everything I say in this damned place seems to turn up in canteen discussion about the ‘legendary Bat family drama.’”

“What?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Clark grabs Bruce’s arm, stopping them both in the centre of a lonely stretch of hallway.

“You can sanction them for being unprofessional, you know that.”

The lenses of the cowl narrow, and Bruce snatches his arm back.

“we both have more important things to deal with.”

Bruce storms forward and Clark remains silent by his side until they reach one of the Watchtower’s four control rooms. Clark opens the door to find Mr Terrific refreshing the same three comm-channels.

“Hey Terrific.”

“Oh, hi Supes. Batman.”

Clark glances at the console screen. No Active Missions.

“Batman was wondering whether he could switch shifts with you?”

Behind him Bruce nods, face unmoving. Terrific opens a tab, scanning its spreadsheet for a moment.

“Sure, sure. All good with me.”

“Thanks, T.”

“Anytime, man.”

Terrific claps Clark on the back as he leaves, earning a glare from the Dark Knight.

“I didn’t realise you and ‘T’ were so friendly.” Bruce mutters, locking the door whilst Clark settles himself at the console.

“We get on pretty well with console duty. Also, ‘Mr Terrific’ is way too many syllables to yell across the battlefield.”

Bruce shrugs in response, taking a seat. Clark suppresses a chuckle. He never took Bruce for the jealous type.

“So, you wanted to talk.”

“Look, Bruce, before we get into it, I’m- I’m not going to force you to make up with Dick. Frankly that’s not something I want to touch, and I’m not going to dictate to you how you should deal with your home life.”

“Right.”

Clark sighs, refreshing a page on the console screen.

“I take it you’ve not had much contact with Dick since he moved out?”

A message flashes up on the monitor and Bruce types out a short response, avoiding Clark’s gaze.

“Nightwing has made it clear that he doesn’t want anything to do with me.”

 There’s something bittersweet in Bruce’s voice that clashes terribly with the cowl.

“Okay. Because, I just. . . I think Dick’s gotten himself into a _situation.”_

“Situation?”

“What’s the situation?” Green Arrow pipes up from the comms. Clark jerks his elbow from the console.

“Err – nothing. Misinterpreted a message. All clear.”

“GA out.”

Clark’s gaze is met by a glare from Bruce.

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine. Continue.”

Clark swallows, fiddling with the sleeve of his suit.

“So, Dick isn’t exactly taking care of himself properly –“

Bruce cuts him off.

“You don’t need to beat around the bush, Clark.”

“I know, I’m just. . . it’s a sensitive topic. You gotta let me warm up to it okay?”

Bruce turns away from the console, leaning forward.

“He hasn’t relapsed, has he?”

 There’s an hint of worry colouring Bruce’s voice, and Clark has an inkling that he’s seeing Bruce as a father for the first time.

“I don’t know.”

“You said he was drinking.”

“He was.”

“He’s underage.”

“That wasn’t my main concern when I found him.”

“What?”

Clark sighs again, closing his eyes for a moment.

“So Dick’s been dating someone.”

“I am aware.”

Clark swallows, dropping Bruce’s gaze for a moment.

“From what I’ve heard, she’s not treating him well.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I picked Dick up from that bar, she called him. And not in the where-are-you-I’m-worried kind of way. You know I’m not one to listen in on phone-calls but – the things she was saying to him, Bruce, you have no idea.”

“So you think she’s. . .”

Bruce stares at a spot on the floor. Clark presses on.

“I don’t want to jump to conclusions but when I called you last week, I was dropping Dick back at this apartment. There wasn’t just shouting.”

“Right.”

Silence stretches between them, punctuated by various pings from the console.

“I don’t think Dick will accept help from me anymore,” Bruce admits, and Clark steels himself against the sudden vulnerability.

“You won’t know until you try.”

*

The rain makes the classroom feel oddly cosy, especially since Dick’s desk is right next to the radiator. He sits with his head in his arms, partly due to the slew of drug-related killings that have been keeping him up at night (literally), and partly to hide the nasty bruise he’s sporting on his jaw.

Dick had arrived back at the academy early in the misguided hope that he could catch breakfast at the cafeteria, only to discover that they’d run out of coffee. He figured the desk by the radiator was as good a spot to nap as any, although some small, petty part of him regretted taking the advanced course and all the extra classes it entailed.

Once he had slipped into the beginnings of sleep, the door opens, and class attendees began to filter into the room. Dick chose to keep his head planted in his arms, too tired form his almost-all-nighter to face any kind of social interaction. Instead he settles into a sleepy sort of limbo, lulled into security by the murmur of conversation.

That is, until the more ‘boisterous’ members of the class enter and throw the room into general disarray and raucous laughter. Dick continues to pretend to be asleep with enhanced vigour. He really doesn’t want to get wrapped up in thinly-veiled one-upmanship this early in the morning.

“Hey Grayson!”

No such luck.

“Someone been keeping you up again?”

It’s Copeland, one of the less intellectually inclined members of the student cohort. Dick raises his middle finger in response, earning another round of laughter.

The classroom door creaks open once more, before Copeland can formulate a reply, Dick props himself up with a hand on his chin whilst the instructor enters and logs into a computer at the front of the room. Everyone Takes this as a signal to settle at their desks. Dick was reminded all too well of his high school experience, right down to the bone-scraping exhaustion. Thank god most of the noise in the room had receded back to the corner furthest from him.

“Right!” The instructor, Martinez, claps her hands together, perching on the edge of the desk, “Welcome back to Relations 101. Today we’re covering police protocol around superheroes.”

Dick’s head plops back down to rest on his left arm.

“A subject that Grayson here seems _very_ excited to learn about.”

Dick forces himself into some sort of sitting position and pretends to take notes as Martinez cycles through a slideshow, with one slide including a snapshot of himself in those god-forsaken green knickers from the original Robin costume.

 “Therefore, it’s really important to place trust as a law enforcer with superheroes when dealing with threats we alone are unable to neutralise. For example, lets take the Doomsday Incident in Metropolis a couple years back. The Metropolitan police force couldn’t deal with the incident on their own, which is why Superman stepped in. However, the force was incredibly successful in evacuation and ground level efforts. It’s important that we remember both the police and the capes are working on the same side.”

“But still, isn’t vigilantism illegal? Technically, I mean.” Thwaites asked from the front row, blond hair flopping out of his eyes.

“I was hoping someone would ask that,” Martinez replied, shifting a couple of slides ahead on the projector, “As, you’re right, vigilantism is still illegal. Vigilantes take the law into their own hands, whilst superheroes work with the law for a common goal.”

From the left corner Anand raise her hand.

“Surely Nightwing is a vigilante then? I mean, he beats people up left, right and centre, based on what he _thinks_ is right?”

“That’s not true at all,” Dick cuts in, “He’s always meeting with detectives.”

“That’s right, Grayson,” Martinez comments, “if you want an example of a vigilante, look at the Question down in Hub City.”

“But Nightwing isn’t even a meta,” another cadet calls out, “Isn’t that the whole point of being a superhero?”

 _That’s Copeland being moronic as usual_ , Nightwing grumbles to himself. He’d rather not be discussing his own validity as a superhero this early in the morning. It’s not exactly doing wonders for his self-esteem.

“They don’t need powers, dipshit, look at Batman.”

“well, _I_ heard Batman can actually manipulate fear- “

“That’s not a power though, that’s just his costume- “

“I didn’t realise I was teaching elementary today, ladies!” Martinez raises her voice over the budding argument. Everyone seems to settle slightly, though Anand and her crew still whisper furiously under the rest of Martinez’s lecture.

The rest of the class continues with little event, and eventually the group is sent away to complete an essay about the various ways in which police and superheroes have worked together.

“Grayson, can I speak to you for a moment?” Martinez calls over the clattering of chairs.

Dick sighs and shoves his laptop back into his bag whilst his classmates file out of the room, before sloping to her desk.

“I just wanted to speak with you about a couple of your most recent- oh, what happened to you jaw?”

Dick swallows, caught off-guard, a rubs his neck.

“Oh its nothing, just an accident at the gym,” He chuckles half-heartedly, and Martinez raises an eyebrow. Thankfully she drops the subject.

“Right, well. . . I haven’t been impressed with some of your most recent assignments, and I know you’re capable of pulling grades a lot higher than you are at the moment. You’re taking the accelerated course for a reason okay? You’ve got great potential.”

Her voice has gone all soft and understanding, and she sounds an awful lot like Clark. Dick cringes internally, frustrated. He really doesn’t need more concerned adults getting involved in his life right now.

“I’m sorry, I’ve just had a lot on my plate right now and-“

“Hey I’m not looking for an apology, just that you take some time with this next assignment. I enjoy reading your papers, y’know.”

Dick can tell she’s trying to make him laugh, and the effort is almost sweet, but he’s a little to tired for this _Dead Poets Society_ shit.

“Okay, I will. And, uh, thanks.”

“Good.” Martinez turns away from him for a moment, scooping up her notebooks. Dick takes this as a hint to leave and makes his way towards the door.

“Oh, and Grayson?” Martinez adds, just as Dick has one foot in the hallway, “Take care of yourself, okay?”

“Will do, ma’am,” Dick replies, and walks away to brave the rest of the day, opening his phone as he walks across the campus to find eighteen missed calls.

Today was going to be a _long_ day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we go! Hope you guys enjoyed that one! So not to spoil the next chapter but there might be a little bit of a bat family reunion in the next chapter? And maybe things will get a little more intense? 
> 
> Either way, I know this one was a little less action focused, but the pace will pick up a little in the next chapter, so look forward too lots of skyscraper hopping (and maybe a bit of a blowout arguement. . . ?)
> 
> (Also I've begun planning the sequel to this so stay tuned for that!)


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